Landscape
by Red Room Flare
Summary: What good is strength, or power, or blood, he wonders, if she must face the abyss on her own? Oneshot. SS. Good for Syaoran fans.


_Hey. This one-shot has been gathering dust in my hard drive for a couple of months now. It never occurred to me to post it… I'm not quite sure why. Anyway, I happen to really like so… ah, I hope you enjoy it as well. _

_Summary: _What good is strength, or power, or blood-----he wonders-----if she must face the abyss on her own?

_Disclaimer: Don't own anything._

_Rating: T for Tinniest bit suggestive? Too proud to write something K+? …turtle?_

_Canon: Yep._

_Observation: Set waaaay into the future. _

* * *

Even asleep he can always hear her, tossing and turning beside him. Occasionally, she'll roll too far or trash too hard, and he'll be abruptly awakened by the full weight of her body as it crashes into his. On those occasions, he gathers her sleeping form in his arms and holds her close and hard, forcing her to ride out the nightmare and enter true sleep. He knows better than to rouse her, to try and pull her out of the deep, dark well of visions that she so often seems to drown in. The one time he did, he learned that the visions must pass: awake or asleep, the dream will follow its course and play itself out in her eyes. The only difference is, when awake, she experiences the dream to its fullest extent----she bleeds and bruises and could even die.

So instead he holds her for hours---sometimes the night through----watching over her and praying that the future has no more messages for her that night.

Sometimes she remembers the dreams. Not all of them---just the ones important enough to move into her conscious mind once the Moon has left the sky. There's a notebook on her bedside table, half-full with willowy landscapes and coal-colored infernos, omens and prophesies that she can't quite place in the vast stretch of time. There're six more like it---only crammed full to the very last line----, sitting in a box on the highest shelf of the bedroom closet.

She's never shown him any of the notebooks. He's never asked to see them. He isn't at all sure he should.

He hates himself for never asking, loathes that he can't work up the courage to reach across the bed and take the notebook in his hands, to thumb through its pages and learn what haunts his lover's sleep. It isn't enough that he spends the nights in vigilance, painfully pressing her fragile body to his breast-----the true burden is the knowledge, the shadowy silhouettes of possible futures that she must choose either to vanquish or pursue. Therein lies the true load of her prophetic visions----it is the reason why Clow endowed her with power beyond imagine. She---delicate, beautiful, soft---a woman, utterly breakable in every sense of the word----the sweetest being ever to walk the roads of men----it is she that was charged with the fate of the world.

And he, who loves her more than he can ever say, is thoroughly unable to help her shoulder the burden. What good is strength, or power, or blood-----he wonders-----if she must face the abyss on her own?

The deepest, most acute desire of his heart is to reach inside her and rip the visions out from her head. But he would never rob her of her destiny, even if he could. She is meant for greatness-----has always been, for centuries, maybe eons before she was born------and he knows it. No one else could ever accomplish the task the gods have put before her----and if the fate of humanity must rest in the hands of one of its own, he can't think of anyone better than the woman he loves.

No, he can't ever make the nightmares stop. But if he could just ease the pain, even if only a fragment of it…

A coward---that's what he is. He has jumped into the void, slain the dragon from its inside, faced fire and ice and mayhem head on, put his soul between evil and his love; but he can't do this for her. He can't reach into her mind and unlock the secrets of tomorrow----no matter how much his heart urges him to.

It looks so plain, sitting there on her small bedside table, its faded blue cover the only barrier standing between him and her. He sits on the bed and stares at it for minutes, steeling his nerves and forcing his hands to reach out and take the notebook. When they finally do, the book's light weight is misleading; within its pages lies the history of the universe in the making----and the load he has vowed to share.

He tries to open it, tells his trembling hands to do what they must, but his body rebels like it never has before. His fingers won't do his bidding, his eyelids flutter shut of their own accord, and burning tears escape his eyes. Something blocks his throat painfully, constricts his breath.

"_Damn it._" He rasps out, shuddering with rage and self-loathing. "_Open._"

But the notebook remains shut.

It's in this state that she finds him.

"Syaoran?" He doesn't respond to the sound of her voice, too intent on his battle. She hurries from the doorway and takes the notebook from his still-shaking hands. She puts in a drawer and shuts it away before kneeling in front of him, her hands replacing the book within his grip.

"I'm sorry. I can't---I couldn't. Sakura, I want to, I-----" He's crying, tears like acid are burning trails from his eyes to his chin. "I can't."

And she takes him into her arms and holds him as tight as she can, and whispers that she knows and understands and loves him all the more for trying; that he doesn't have to, that the notebook's for her only, that they all have their roles to play and that he does his part too well----that he's the reason why the dreams are worth enduring and the future worth shaping-----that without him she couldn't ever forget the dark and the cold, or remember that her life is rooted in today and not tomorrow-----that when he holds her through the night and places his cool hands on her forehead and rides the storm out beside her it means everything to her and she can't ever feel alone when she knows that after the dreams are over she'll wake up to his face.

She kisses his lips and his rage slowly fades. The notebook stays in the drawer.

The next time she trashes in her sleep, he does like he's always have-----he holds her body against his and soothes her brow with feather-light kisses. In the morning, she doesn't remember the dream and the drawer remains closed.

But he can't forget the notebook; he can't ignore the dreams. When she's gone and he's alone in their home, he opens the drawer and takes the notebook in hands that refuse to stay still. He stares at its cover for as long as he bears before sighing and placing it back in its drawer.

And he continues to hope that soon, he'll be strong enough to know.

_

* * *

Red Notes:_

_So… that's it: just a quick vignette based on the idea that the Cards were made _because_ Sakura has prophetic dreams and not the other way around. I thought it was an interesting idea and might eventually try to make something longer out of it. For now, I just wanted to explore what that might be like for Syaoran. _

_I'd love it if you reviewed. Please?_

_Thanks for reading._

_--Fée _


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